


A Mask of Dirt

by TheCrowMaiden



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically my defense to some of the fandom thinking hes a gross caveman, Bathing/Washing, Blackwall's POV, Blackwall's habits and thoughts about bathing, F/M, Light Angst, who doesnt know what soap is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-26 00:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18271841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrowMaiden/pseuds/TheCrowMaiden
Summary: Blackwall doesn't bathe much for a few reasons (it's hard for anyone to recognize him when he looks like he fought a tree, afterall), but it doesn't bother him until he meets a certain woman in the Hinterlands one day.





	A Mask of Dirt

The first time Blackwall meets the Herald of Andraste, he hasn't bathed in months.

That's not to say he hasn't washed at all. He's scrubbed down in every stream that hasn't had bodies in the water, to get the dried blood and dirt off his skin. A handful of sand and a splash of water go a long way to stop the itching; he's even used a handkerchief and a rainstorm a couple times. Helps with the cuts he picks up while fighting. But it's been a long time since soap has been involved in any of his encounters with water, and his beard is purposefully ungroomed. Even his hair is just slicked back out of the way, greasy and littered with pine needles.

He hasn't thought about the fact that his clothes haven't been washed; he only has the one set. It’s bad enough wearing his underthings damp under his breeches, he can't risk running around in nothing but his skin waiting for everything to dry. Or risk wearing it all wet and getting hit by a stiff Fereldan windstorm from up north. Both would probably end in a death too embarrassing to subject the Warden's name to.

In fact, being clean is one of the few things that _hasn’t_ kept Blackwall up at night.

Until he stops an arrow from striking the striking woman in front of him, and he can suddenly imagine how he looks and smells in great detail.

She's no powdered princess, nor are her companions, but their clothes have definitely seen a laundry in the last month and they don't look like they're strangers to a kettle of hot water and a few stems of wild sweet william. He's picked up even more grime from the fight and there's blood smeared over his armour...and if he was her, he'd kick his ass into the lake on principle.

But instead she smiles, and takes him along.

Being around so many people makes his shoulders tense and his head ache; he gets to be practiced at turning away just enough so he doesn’t catch anyone’s eye. Haven is far too desperate to look too close at whom the Herald and the stony-eyed Seeker drag in, but Blackwall hides out by the stables all the same. His soul and hands are dirty already; the rest of him may as well continue to match. He still won't risk cleaning his face or hair with so many strangers around. The horses don't mind the state he's in as long as he's scrounged up something to offer as a treat.

Besides, he feels confident that the Herald will not leave the safety of the walls to check on a Warden who looks like they were pulled from the Fallow Mire on a bad day.

But she visits him.

Talks with him.

_Flirts_ with him.

And every moment makes him agonizingly more aware how filthy he really is.

No one recognizes him to his relief, but Haven is levelled before he can make any decisions regarding that revelation. For once everyone looks as bad he does, which is an odd sort of comfort. There's no time to clean up after the battle, the archdemon, and the avalanche that nearly takes the Herald from them. It's easier to walk at her side when even Solas looks like he was pulled out of a city ditch. Not to mention it's colder than Maferath's balls (as Varric quips) and no one is removing clothing for anything. They're called the Frostback Mountains for a reason.

But then they get to Skyhold and the Herald—the Inquisitor—refuses to back down from her talking, flirting, and _caring_. She simply will not leave him alone. And against his better judgement, his affection towards her outweighs his caution towards the strangers that flood through the gates every day.

The first thing he whittles in Skyhold is a comb.

When he goes to the quartermaster, they finally have a spare set of clothes to offer him. Inside the walls of the castle the wind doesn't bite quite as hard as it did in Haven. There's privacy and creaky wooden tugs big enough to fit even the Iron Bull. There are kettles of hot water and scissors sharp enough he can trim his hair with them instead of his belt knife.

He's the cleanest he's been in recent memory when he goes to the Inquisitor's room to beg her to call things off. Right down to his boots. When she kisses him instead, pulls him against her so their bodies press together against the railing, he's never been so grateful for soap and a clean gambeson.

But he still stays in the barn, out of sight and out of mind of everyone but her and Sera. He's bathed but not polished, and every time they go to Val Royeux he sleeps in the loft without a bedroll so there's straw in his hair and a horsey smell around him even after he washes up.

Dorian laments, Vivienne turns up her nose, and the nobles don't spare him a glance. But the Inquisitor pulls a stray stalk from his beard before she kisses him with a laugh, and Blackwall knows he's as clean as he needs to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically. I saw one too many things that suggested Blackwall was somehow this gross hobo who never bathed and liked it that way. My rant turned into a fic, and here we are!


End file.
